


The Case of the Jilted House Husband.

by faerywhimsy (persephone20)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love, and it's fun to have John yell at Sherlock, angst for the sake of it, not another post-reichenbach fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone20/pseuds/faerywhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew that John Watson had feelings for him from the first time they met. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for John to realise it himself. In which Sherlock deduces things wrongly, and John gets angry a lot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This short is deliberately written to be able to fit in anywhere in the current six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Sherlock.**

Sherlock knew that John Watson had feelings for him from the first time they met. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for John to realise it himself. 

How could he not know? Not see the way John's eyes widened at his first glimpse of the tall man with dark curled hair. Not see the way that the quirk of his lips had John's gaze dipping to watch it, or the way that his low, drawling voice made John all flustered.

Oh, it could have been what Sherlock was saying that first time in the morgue that caused John to become flustered, but that didn't go to explain the rest of the symptoms--and several others unmentioned--of John's attraction to one Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock came to respect the quickness of John's mind. Not in comparison to Sherlock's, of course. Nor in comparison to Anderson. That would be insulting in the opposite direction. But he was quicker than, say, Lestrade. Than Mrs. Hudson. Than Molly. 

That wasn't what captured Sherlock's fancy, of course. He was quite genuine at the start when he rebuffed John's interest, but that was before he realised that John didn't know about his own interest. Then they started living together. John made him tea. Put up with his habits, including but not limited to body parts in the fridge. Oh, he groused about it, but what normal human being wouldn't? The grousing without follow was about the kindest thing a house mate had ever done for him. He had almost given up living with another person for lost, before Mike walked in with John Watson. 

Then there was the gentle way that John patched him up after Sherlock got into a scrape. The gentle look in his eyes that echoed the gentle touch of his hands. The war hadn't broken something in John, hadn't left him unfeeling or inhuman. If anything, he was _more_ human for his experiences in Afganistan. Maybe it was that alone which called to the high-functioning sociopath, constantly one step out of time with the human feelings and experiences of every other human around him.

But, in this one respect, Sherlock had to bow down to one powerful fact: in this instance, John was slower in understanding than even Anderson.

Sherlock watched him across crime scenes. Red and blue lights reflecting off the sides of their faces. Shadows filled in the spaces, but John's eyes were always bright. Sherlock met those eyes and waited for John to stop what he was saying about this crime or that other crime and suddenly see what was written all over Sherlock's features. _It's okay._

_You are not alone in these feelings._

_I don't know how to talk about these things, you'll have to be the one to start it._

But, either John never saw and interpreted these gazes, or he simply didn't want to be the one to start talking about them. Since Sherlock knew the feelings John possessed, he knew it was more likely John wasn't yet ready to start to talk about them. And so he had to wait.

And grow more impatient. Waiting had never been a strong suit of his. It was made all the more difficult to deal with due to the constant stream of women John had coming through his life. Sherlock thought that John might have realised then. Most of those women certainly did and, the ones who didn't, Sherlock had no problems with setting straight once John had gone to work and his girlfriends were left only in the company of Sherlock. He didn't do it meanly, he never did anything meanly. All he meant was inform these women of exactly where they stood with John, because pining for a man who could never give them what they wanted wasn't good for anyone. 

He didn't stop to think of whether that same adage applied to him, because he was Sherlock, and he didn't deduce things incorrectly.

Those were the women who never returned John's phone calls for follow-up dates. John looked at Sherlock around the phone in his hand after these unanswered calls. 

"Did you... say anything to...?" The question came in various forms, with different names at the end. Sherlock would always widen his eyes and shrug his shoulders until John shook his head and turned away in disgust.

Still, he didn't come to Sherlock with the obvious follow-up question if he thought Sherlock was sabotaging his relationships: why _are you sabotaging my relationships?_

Sherlock began to lose faith that John would ever come to terms with the feelings he held for the consulting detective. Maybe he was one of those 'closet' types. He would marry, and have children, and John's wife would never allow Sherlock around those children, until one day, John came to his door, drenched because he had been walking in the rain all night, only to tell Sherlock he couldn't do this anymore, couldn't lie to his wife, his kids, anymore, and he would fall into Sherlock's arms and kiss him and kiss him...

And Sherlock would let him. 

Surely it was better for these things to come to light now, before John's imaginary wife and family came into fruition?

"John."

John's head bopped up from the blog entry he was writing on his laptop. His expression was open and friendly, waiting for whatever it was that Sherlock had to say next. For once, Sherlock stood in the living room without any prop in his hand to fiddle with. He opened his mouth a couple of times, closed it. He had no idea how to start this. 

Seeing Sherlock's difficulty, John turned more fully away from his laptop.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

_I want you._

_When I'm around you, I feel almost normal._

_Won't you tell me--finally--the way I've known you felt for me since the moment we met?_

Sherlock blinked, turned his head sharply from the other man's quizzical gaze, and the moment was gone. He glared at the dining room table, furious at himself that he had let this moment pass without incident.

"Nothing, John," he said, from between gritted teeth. 

He heard the sound of John's recliner click back into place, before he moved the tressel table that his laptop was on. Of course. Of course John wanted to help. How could he know that his urge to help in this case was exactly the wrong response for him to give?

Stupid, _stupid_ John.

John stood right behind him. "Is this about a case?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. Impossible to think, really, how he had ranked him above Anderson. 

"Why not?" he said whimsically. "It is the case of the jilted house husband."

John's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Is it...?" John blinked a couple of times, but didn't finish his train of thought.

"What?" Sherlock bit out.

"Well... I was only going to say... it sounds beneath you. Are you sure it's not a case better suited to Lestrade?"

Sherlock sighed wearily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I couldn't help but let John have his refrain on the whole situation. I'm weak! What can I say? Once again, this fic exists in it's own little bubble of whenever you wish to imagine it in canon.

**John.**

In the last couple of weeks, since the jilted house husband incident--and John had never even been asked to accompany Sherlock on any business surrounding that particular case--there had been a strange energy surrounding the residence of 221B Baker Street. 

Of course, John had no reason to suspect Sherlock was aware of this strange energy, or that he would acknowledge it even if he was aware. That was just too close to emotions or a sense of feelings for it to be anything Sherlock would willingly touch. Instead, he stayed as busy as ever with whatever cases Lestrade gave him, snarked with Sally, and disregarded Anderson.

If Sherlock seemed distracted when it came to John, John just put it down to Sherlock being unable to separate his work life with his home life when they were together. In his own head, John had enough to be distracted by.

It had started a little over a week ago that, whenever they were on a case, Sherlock reached out to touch him. John had put it aside the first few times as Sherlock merely wanting to direct John's attention to something he had missed. But when Sherlock had taken his hand to wander him into a house relating to the latest case, John had stared in confusion at the need for that hand wrapped around his, before stumbling along behind him.

"Come along!" Sherlock had told him impatiently, but the other man did not let go of his hand in order to steer even faster into the house filled with evidence.

He wasn't gay. Not that there was anything wrong with that. John had a sister who was gay and was quite aware that love between a woman and a woman, or between a man and a man, was no different to that between a man and a woman. That same sister would kick his ass if he dared voice any opinion that was other than that, and John wasn't inclined to do so in any case.

No, it wasn't that which bothered him. It was just when John thought of his house mate in particular. John knew he didn't have feelings for Sherlock.

Didn't. Certainly not. The idea of it was absurd. How could anyone have any sort of feelings for someone who had showed him such disregard since almost the first moment they'd met?

Although work had kept the two men busy of late, John decided to take to his little black book again, accepting dates with women who were game enough to ask him out, taking initiative himself every so often. At least they paid him attention, showed him interest.

And he made it a habit to stop leaving the house before his latest girlfriend had excused herself from Baker Street as well.

Which is how he came across this conversation between Sherlock and Rita. 

He was looking for his keys that may or may not have fallen behind the headboard the night before when he and Rita had been engaged in activities of an adult nature. Pursing his lips together, he wondered whether it wasn't out in the lounge room after all, whether this was't a trick or a test that Sherlock had played on him. He strode out of his room in order to ask Sherlock that very thing, when the low tone of Sherlock's voice, and Rita's higher pitched voice answering, hit his ears.

"I'm glad you had a good time last night. But I wouldn't expect any more than that were I you."

"Oh? And how would you know what I can expect from John?" Rita's voice sounded confident. John hung back. He had to admit, he was interested in Sherlock's answer too.

A second later, he had cause to regret the fact that he'd hung back. "We are house mates. I am privy to everything that man things. Everything he feels."

There was a weight of underlying meaning layered behind those simple words. John may have been able to tell that Rita was taking her time chewing through those words too, if he hadn't been so consumed with playing them back in his own head.

Not too surprisingly, it was Rita who recovered herself first. "Well. I suppose I'll just wait to hear from John on that, won't I?"

Blinking, John thrust himself into the lounge room. Rita's dark eyes and Sherlock's deliberately calm eyes awaited him. Too deliberately calm?

He hadn't planned on what he was going to say once he stalked into the middle of this conversation. Now he wished he had. "What were you two talking about?" Inwardly, he blanched. Asking them if they'd been talking about him would have been a better question to ask.

Thankfully, Rita looked down towards her watch. "I've got to go, John. I'll be late for work otherwise. But I'll call you after?"

"Yes," John was quick to say. He crossed the room, kissing her on the mouth before letting her go again. "Have a good day."

It sounded trite to his own ears, but Rita seemed to buy it. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she said, but he only offered a brief nod of his head in answer. Rita walked to the door of the flat and let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

John rounded on Sherlock. "What was that about?" Another sentence that he didn't think about before he said it. But this one he had to know the answer to him.

Sherlock's pale, blue eyes turned back to him. John struggled to keep his breathing even. He told himself that it was anger that made him short of breath, willed that to be the answer Sherlock came to when he analysed John's quick breathing and the steady flush that he was sure was rising over his neck and cheeks.

Instead, Sherlock only flickered a glance towards him, before standing up, unfolding himself from his chair slowly. "Ask yourself, why are you really displeased at me," he dared.

"I don't _want_ to ask myself why I'm displeased! You were just warning my girlfriend away from me. I want to know why!" Because if Sherlock had a reason that he didn't want John to be dating anyone else, then John had to hear it. 

Had to. 

No, no no.

Sherlock's face turned deliberately blank. Yes, John thought as he watched it happen. It _was_ too deliberately done. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could see things before him and decipher what they meant. If anything, John had the advantage here since this was in an emotional area. 

"Tell me," he said again, softly, in case Sherlock tried to talk himself out of speaking.

Sherlock turned his head away slightly, and John had seen that evasive maneuver before. "I don't know why you even need to hear it," he murmured.

"Because you're bloody well dictating my life!" As he said these words, John's mind went back, and he got a steady idea of just how long this had been going on. His whole body had started very finely shaking. John clenched his hands into fists, and willed himself not to think of his weak leg. Or the fact that he had work to get to. Or the fact that, whatever the outcome of this conversation, John still had to live in this flat with Sherlock after this. 

Through all this, Sherlock just stared at him, and that didn't help the state of John's heart rate or bodily shakes at all. 

"Just tell me," John said with resignation. "Help me to understand..."

But Sherlock was shaking his head before John had even finished speaking. "You're not ready to understand it yet." And, John thought, Sherlock looked sincerely sorry to say it. 

John stared a Sherlock a moment longer, then nodded his head once, jerkily. "Right," he said. "Not ready. To hear the latest reason why my house mate with a God complex is... Fine. I've got to get to work." 

Sod his keys, he thought as he grabbed his jacket and stormed for the door. If Sherlock wasn't home when he got back, he would just go out for a beer with Lestrade. God knows he could use one.

And this, he thought, as he stood outside on Baker Street, was the reason why he would never admit his feelings. Not to himself. Never to Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock.**

It was getting to the point where it was ridiculous. Actually, it was well past the point where it was ridiculous, but Sherlock felt that gathering up the courage to do something about it as it was _getting to the point where it was ridiculous_ sounded better.

So, he was going to do something about it. Never mind that he didn't have the slightest idea what that thing was going to be. Never mind that he'd so rarely taken an action on so little evidence or foreplanning that he hardly knew what to do with himself. Never mind that the thought of approaching John about this caused Sherlock to break out into a near cold sweat. 

Never mind any of those things. This had gone on far enough.

John must have seen something in the expression on his friend's face as soon as Sherlock walked into their flat, for he piped up, "Sherlock, what...?"

"John, say nothing. Unless you have something truly important you need to own up to," Sherlock said, and added quickly as it occurred to him what the potential repercussions of shutting John up out of mind could.

He waited, then watched an expression of curiosity cross John's features, presumably as he sought to figure out what it was that he should be owning up to, then settled into a neutral expression while he waited for Sherlock to speak first.

Very well.

"It has come to my attention that there is an untenable elephant in our room that must be talked about," Sherlock began.

John's lips parted. Stunningly, he came up with nothing witty to add, "I thought that the point of an elephant in the room was that it wasn't talked about." He exhibited no small amount of amusement as he came up with this comment.

"Quite," Sherlock muttered shortly. He took a step towards John. Another one. The awkward pauses in between each step had the effect of making his gait appear rather clunky.

"Sherlock?" Now John was looking at his feet, of all things! "Is there something wrong with your leg?"

"I assure you there is nothing wrong with my leg!" Sherlock cried in frustration. "John, would you just stand up. Please."

The please wasn't said in the most polite of tones, but it was the best Sherlock could manage. John stood up, looking bemused and confused the entire time.

"Of course, Sherlock. Whatever you want."

Whatever he wanted. _Wrong already, John._ If this was the way that Sherlock wanted it... well, then John would have known this was the last position Sherlock wanted to find himself in. 

He took another two steps towards John. That took him almost level with the other man. John was shorter, of course. That didn't bother him. Actually, it was comforting, in a way. The few girls he had had the experience of kissing in earlier years had been shorter than him. In order to not stuff this up, Sherlock had a sense that he could use all the help that he could get.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, as Lady Macbeth would have had it--and Sherlock didn't stop to think what it meant that his internal monologue was reaching to Lady Macbeth for inspiration--Sherlock reached for John and drew him close, closing the rest of the distance between them and ducking his head. 

It wasn't the most graceful of kisses, but Sherlock's lips landed on John's. He coached those lips apart with gentle ministrations and, when he judged the appropriate amount of time had passed, he lightly inserted the tip of his tongue just inside of John's mouth.

He'd seen this act described many times, of course, over the course of his years of reading. Most commonly, he had found the description of one person exploring another's mouth with their tongue. Sherlock found that to be a most gross conspiracy in inaccuracy on the part of so many people who fancied themselves authors. 

To Sherlock's mind, kissing John, coaxing his lips apart and coercing his tongue inside that warm mouth was nothing like that. The first sensation of Sherlock's tongue inside John's mouth was more like a soft dart into the dark. Of course, his tongue had no eyes with which to see, but the fact that Sherlock's own eyes were closed aided in that illusion. His tongue came across nothing to provide any friction; Sherlock wasn't even sure John would later be aware that Sherlock's tongue had entered his mouth on that occasion. It wasn't until the second sweep of Sherlock's tongue brushed against John's, providing a jolt of desire that surprised Sherlock and almost distracted him enough that he fumbled. Still, however, the feeling of exploring John's whole mouth with just his tongue was absent. It was maybe on the third lazy sweep that Sherlock remembered to breathe let alone felt his brain begin to re-engage.

And brought his attention to yet another inaccuracy for him to take issue with. To be sure, there were hints of flavours that Sherlock picked up on John's mouth, on his breath. But nothing so decidedly complex as what John had had for lunch, for example. Honestly, Sherlock probably could have identified the different tastes and smells that were John except, at that particular moment, his mind was rather otherwise occupied.

How was it that these so-called authors hadn't themselves experienced this phenomena? 

Rounding to the end of the kiss, Sherlock thought to himself that all of this could have gone much, much worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**John.**

John pulled back from the kiss feeling shocked. And, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, just a little bit horrified. There was nothing like imagining a thing to happen and then, when it happened, for it to go nothing like you had imagined. John wondered what kind of a game was Sherlock playing at? 

"What...?" John's first attempt at getting words out was completely balls up. He had to try again, "What was that?" 

Sherlock blinked at him. "Well..." he murmured. "If you don't know that, then I fear my skills in that area are far more woeful than I had allowed myself to believe."

John almost thought Sherlock looked a bit bashful at that admission, then pulled himself up. No. No, he wasn't going to allow himself to get embroiled in one of Sherlock's tricks.

"No," he reiterated aloud. "Who put you up to this? Was it Mycroft?" 

Now Sherlock's expression turned blank. Not deliberately blank, in that way John had noticed most recently. But like Sherlock was actually surprised. John believed it. "Mycroft? Of course not."

"Lestrade, then." 

But as soon as he uttered the words, John knew that their Inspector friend would never have put Sherlock up to doing something like this. He respected both Sherlock and John for one. 

Before Sherlock could pull together an answer for that, John continued, "Or a case? Is this research for a case?" Because John actually thought that he could buy Sherlock's doing this to him for research for a case. Because the other option was that Sherlock had noticed John reacting strangely to Sherlock of late, and he had put reasons to that, reasons that John himself wasn't able to admit to yet.

He imagined that, right now, his eyes looked more than a little bit wide. Pulling his gaze straight down to the floor, John tried to reign himself in a little bit. Okay, so, this wasn't the worst thing that had happened. As far as Sherlock knew, John wasn't gay. And he had a mountain of evidence in the form of girlfriends and female lovers John had had to support that fact. Never mind that those commitments had been feeling ever more so hollow as time had gone by and that, at least the last three times, John's favourite time of night had been after he had offered the woman a fare to pay for the taxi home, before settling in on the couch beside Sherlock in order to watch telly. 

But none of that mattered because a relationship with Sherlock wasn't the kind of thing that could happen. If living with Sherlock himself hadn't cemented the idea, then the opinions of others closest to him proved it. Just look at the way he'd treated Molly, a perfectly lovely young woman who had been quite eager to pursue any kind of a relationship with Sherlock that Sherlock had offered. And he had turned her down. Repetitively, and cruelly, until John just couldn't stand to watch it. He'd told himself he just didn't want to imagine his friend being capable of being so cruel.

John refused to let in the question of whether there was no more to be read into the way Sherlock had treated Molly than the fact that she was the wrong gender for him to feel an interest towards. Because living with Sherlock had taught him another thing too: suit theory to facts, _never_ the other way around.

Eventually, the sensation of Sherlock's gentle touch upon his arm brought John back out of from his thoughts again. 

"I thought that you could use a minute to yourself." Sherlock's head was inclined towards John, though he was making sure to keep the distances between their body maintained. John winced at the perceived need for that, feeling like some sort of a freak for reacting this way.

"It's just..." he started weakly. "You don't do this sort of thing. You don't feel. You don't _do_ human relationships."

"I believe it's fair to say I have a human relationship with you. And one with Lestrade, although the parameters of that are much different. I certainly don't look at him the way that I look at you."

John's forehead creased as Sherlock made that admission. He struggled against letting that traitorous little hope in his chest rise up and bloom. He ignored what Sherlock said about Lestrade. "No you _don't_. Not once, Sherlock, in the whole time that I have lived here, have I seen you even approach someone that you might like to date. Well, there was that Irene woman, I suppose..." John amended.

Sherlock's lip curled in what may have been disgust. "Please, John. The only reason I was close to her was that she confirmed what I saw, and that was your feelings towards me."

At those words, John just gaped. Absently, he watched the muscles in Sherlock's jaw bunch and release, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say around the rushing in his ears.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are we still not supposed to be saying that? I thought we might be past that. After all, you did kiss me back."

A pause, because he had. He had only started freaking out after the kiss had no longer been in the present. That's when his insecurities over Sherlock had decided to roll over him. "That's not the point," John decidedly maintained.

"Then, pray tell me, what is the point?" Sherlock asked, starting to sound slightly irate for the first time in this conversation. "Because I certainly don't see it."

And wasn't that a dire affair, if the consulting detective owned up to not seeing something. Unless it was something that Sherlock was deliberately trying to ignore. 

"Sherlock, you have to know what I'm talking about," John said plaintively. 

"I've already told you I do not."

"Very well then," John replied. "I'm talking about what happens when you decide that this experiment no longer interests you? When you move onto the next experiment and we're just expected to go back to being friends again? What happens if I..." John almost choked on the words. He struggled again for a minute, gaze darting around desperately as he tried to discover a different way of expressing himself. "If I develop _feelings_ for you, but have to set them aside because you don't have the same level of feelings for me?"

"Because you've been almost in love with me since the first time you met me, or very close, and I haven't?"

It was very baldly put, but that just meant that Sherlock had said the things that John couldn't. John looked up, met Sherlock's gaze, not shying away for the first time. Then, eventually, "Yes," he whispered.

"Then that's easy," Sherlock decided. He looked very carefully at John, not allowing him to look away, or shy away. John should have felt cornered, but he just wanted to be reassured. "I may not have had those feelings for you when we first met, but that doesn't lessen the feelings I have now. I don't indulge in emotions often because they are a weakness, not because I don't have the capacity to feel. Many others have made that mistake before you, John, but I had hoped..." Sherlock took a deep breath. 

John couldn't help himself. He had to ask, "Hoped what?"

"I had hoped," Sherlock repeated, "that you would be different." Sherlock lifted his chin, and John was far too flummoxed to make any attempt at deciphering the exactitude of what that movement meant. He decided to go on Sherlock's words alone, and those words were, "Do you think that you can be different, John?"

John wanted to be different. He wanted very much to be different. He surprised himself by noticing that he was nodding before he realised he was nodding. He closed his eyes, before opening them again and saying the scariest few words that he ever thought he'd uttered. "Yes, Sherlock. I think that I can try to be different."


End file.
